Uncle William: the man who was shif'less eBook

Andy grinned a sickly good-by. “Good-by,
Willum; I’ll do as well as I can by her.”
He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. The
island seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy,
and he was needed at home. The mental effort
of thinking up a menu three times a day that did not
include fish and potato for a magnificent creature
like Juno weighed heavily on him. He had proposed
bringing her down to the house, thinking to shift
the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had refused
sternly. “She wouldn’t be comfortable,
Andy. The’ ’s a good deal of soap
and water down to your house and she wouldn’t
like it. You can run up two or three times, easy,
to see she’s all right. Mebbe you’ll
get fond of her.”

Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned
away from the wharf, there seemed no place on the
island that would hold him so comfortably as the little
house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky path
to it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from
her lounge. When she saw who it was she gave
an indifferent lick to her front leg, as if she always
jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back
on the lounge and tuned her back to the room, looking
out of the window and blinking from time to time.
The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in the distance.

Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring
at nothing. The sun poured in. It filled
the room with warmth. Andy’s eyes rested
on it vacantly. The stillness was warm and big.
It seemed a kind of presence. Andy drew his hand
across his eyes and got up. He went over and stood
by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone.
Juno turned her head and blinked an eye or two, indifferent.
She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze returned
to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to
stroke her. He drew it back. He had a sudden
bitter desire to swear or kick something. He
went out hastily, closing the door behind him.
Juno, with her immovable gaze, stared out to sea.

IX

Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen
relish. The spring warmth had brought out the
smells of lower New York teemingly. There was
a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating—­of
decayed vegetables and engine-grease and dirt.
It was the universal port-smell the world over, and
Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he
watched the play of life in the dockshed—­the
backing of horses and the shouting of the men, the
hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and the trundling
hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales.

He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was
a part of the journey—­the sense of leisure.
Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from
the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack
in hand. There are innumerable details—­duties,
inspections and quarantines, and delays and questionings.
The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs
move with the swift leisure of those who live daily
between Life and the Deep Sea—­without hurry
and without rest.